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Marco Rubio
(Voice of a Broken Lineage)
Before your first cry kissed Florida’s air,
Two weary souls crossed oceans of despair—
Your parents, Cuban hearts in exile,
Arrived in 1956, not with riches,
But with hope wrapped in trembling hands.
They fled the storm, not to breed silence—
But to gift you a voice sharp as justice.
And yet, what song do you sing now,
Marco of the marbled throne?
Where is your mother’s ache?
Where is your father’s fire?
Buried beneath lobby gold and foreign war drums?
You wear America like armor,
But it shields you from your roots.
You sip from cups filled with blood and denial,
While Gaza cries and Cuba weeps.
Did you forget the sweat of your lineage,
Chasing shadows of power with blind eyes?
You are not a prince—you are a pawn,
Dancing for the architects of ruin.
You hated your own kin for survival.
But survival at the price of memory
Is not wisdom—it is moral slavery.
Money speaks louder than heritage now.
But what will you say to your soul
When it demands an answer?
Power deceives.
But time uncovers.
And one day,
You will be judged by the child you once were—
And the ancestors who never left your blood.
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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